‘Thanks to this cheap gewgaw,’ he stated caustically, ‘we’re on the trail and won’t lose it now. Thanks to Lord Vilgefortz we know which way the girl is headed. We know where we’re going and what we have to do. I’d call that plenty. Compared to your efforts of a month ago.’

‘Don’t talk so much. Hey, Boreas? What does the trail say?’

Boreas Mun straightened up and cleared his throat.

‘She was here an hour before us. She’s riding hard where she can. But it’s difficult terrain. Even on that exceptional mare she’s not more than five, six miles ahead of us.’

‘And so she’s still pushing on among those lakes,’ Skellen muttered. ‘Vilgefortz was right. And I didn’t believe him…’

‘Neither did I,’ Bonhart admitted. ‘Until yesterday, when those peasants confirmed there really is some kind of magical structure by Tarn Mira.’

The horses snorted, steam billowing from their nostrils. Tawny Owl glanced over his left shoulder at Joanna Selborne. For several days he had been none too pleased by the telepath’s expression. I’m getting edgy, he thought. This chase has exhausted all of us, physically and mentally. It’s time to be done with it. High time.

A cold shudder ran down his back. He recalled the dream that had visited him the night before.

‘Very well!’ he said, coming back to his senses. ‘That’s enough meditation. To horse!’

Boreas Mun hung from his saddle, looking for tracks. It wasn’t easy. The earth had frozen solid, hard as iron, and the loose snow, quickly blown away by the wind, only lingered in furrows and clefts. It was in them that Boreas was searching for the black mare’s hoof prints. He had to pay close attention in order not to lose the trail, especially now, when the magical voice coming from the silver box had fallen silent, stopped giving advice and instructions.

He was unbelievably weary. And anxious. They’d been tracking the girl for almost three weeks, since Samhain and the massacre in Dun Dare. Almost three weeks in the saddle, constantly on the hunt. And still neither the black mare nor the girl riding it had weakened or slowed their pace.

Boreas Mun looked for tracks.

He couldn’t stop thinking about a dream from the night before. In it he had been drowning. The black water had closed over his head and he sank to the bottom, the icy water gushing into his throat and lungs. He awoke hot and sweaty, wet through, although a truly bitter winter was raging around them.

That’s enough, he thought, hanging from his saddle, looking for tracks. It’s high time we were done with it.

‘Master? Do you hear me? Master?’

The xenogloss was silent as the grave.

Rience moved his arms vigorously and breathed on his numb hands. The cold nipped his neck and shoulders, his lower back and loins hurt; each jolt of the horse reminded him of the pain. He didn’t even feel like swearing. Almost three weeks in the saddle, in an unending pursuit. In the bitter cold and for several days in severe frost.